The Baulvet Chronicles
by Vickers12
Summary: A collection of stories about the triumphs and tragedies of the Baulvet Family.
1. A Promise to Never Relent

(Story based on an RP-PVP event on MG. Wrote 3 parts of it throughout a six month period, decided to publish it. I might write more in the future, who knows?)

**Terick** **Baulvet**

Droplets of rain pounded down on the cast iron cannons, traveling down the width of the already rusted surface of the wretched looking artillery. The bog had not been kind to the 7th Legion, and it most certainly had not been kind to their siege equipment. Although the movement of the cannons was powered by horse, the poor creatures often found themselves trapped in the mud and sometimes would fall into the water, to be torn asunder by the creatures within before they could rise.

All that was cast from the mind of Lord Commander Baulvet, it was history and his task was to live in the present, to ensure that the walls of Stonard fell. He'd given his men the orders, four positions were taken in the bog, each with a section of four cannons that would unleash their volleys in unison on the pitiful orcs. "No," Lord Commander Baulvet thought, "the orcs deserve no pity, and they will receive none from me or my cannons."

Already the siege was in place, they'd been firing for hours and sections of the wall had already begun to crumble. They had not gone unmolested, the Kor'Kron Legion had sallied forth to engage and successfully destroy the gunners and their cannons at the crossroads. The Lord Commander's nerves were still intact after hearing their death knells over the hearthstones he had given them to stay in communication with him, but he could see the fear in the eyes of the cannoneers in his section.

The Lord Commander did not see why, the bloody orcs had already attempted to take their position and the fools now laid dead several meters in front of the cannons-their flesh scorched black from Brother Sehti's spells, and several limbs hacked off from Lord Commander Baulvet's bastard sword. With that thought, he looked to Brother Sehti. Sehti was a warlock, a conjurer of demons and wielder of dark magicks-one of the few things that the Lord Commander was wary of in this world.

Brother Sehti stood there with as much dignity as was possible in the rain, his sickly green robes soaked from head to toe. The Warlock's hallow eyes met Ser Baulvet's, sending a chill down his spine and prompting him to look away. "Any means necessary," Lord Commander Baulvet told himself, "it's better to have the warlock on my side."

The Hand did not turn away those willing to sing the song of steel, so long as they had the skill. Former cutthroats and shining knights of the Light fought side by side, brothers in arms and dependant on each other for survival. Even warlocks and Knights of the Ebon Blade found a place among them. One simply did not turn away good warriors, because they have a penchant for violence or depravity. A good commander would turn that raw emotion and brutality into a weapon, to strike fear into the heart of an enemy.

"When Stonard falls," Lord Commander Baulvet thought, "I will use their bodies to fertilize the soil, and give the land to the Broken as a gift."

There would be no mercy, mercy was already offered and rejected. Before the siege, the Hand had rode to the gates of Stonard and offered them the terms of surrender-they'd need to lay down their arms and swear an oath to never take up arms against the Alliance again. Sir Baulvet almost admired their tenacity, he'd have been disappointed if they hadn't decided to resist.

This wouldn't be the first time he'd sack Stonard either, he had a troubled history with that cursed settlement. In the First War he had been one of those who marched on Stonard and Rockard, razing Rockard and dealing a heavy handed blow to Stonard. Their campaign would be doomed however, and Sir Baulvet lost someone he held in high regard during that battle.

"Section One," Lord Commander Baulvet bellowed, "load!"

Sir Baulvet watched as the cannoneers grabbed their rods, wrapping a dirty-yet dry-rag around the bore brush and shoving it into their bores. They vigorously swabbed the bore, cleaning the debris out, until confident enough to pull the shaft out and pocket the rag-in an attempt to keep it relatively dry, water in the bore would ensure a misfire. As the gunners opened their breaches to load the shot, Sir Baulvet heard splashing coming from behind.

He turned, his bastard sword raised overheard in a high guard, prepared to bring swift death upon the fool who would try to sneak up on him and his brothers. Fortunately, to his relief, it was a familiar face. Ser Baulvet recognized the little gnome as Augidget, his liaison to COGS-gnomes he had taken into the employment of his forces in the Swamp of Sorrows, due to their eccentric and often times useful tactics.

Realization of what her arrival meant caused the relief to fade quickly, if Augidget were here that meant that her section had fallen as well. His first words to her were in the form of a question, which he asked in his usual gruff tone, "did you spike the cannons, little gnome?"

Augidget nodded, speaking in a tired voice, "yes, the cannons have been rendered useless."

"Good," Sir Baulvet snapped back, gritting his teeth as he spoke, "fall in with my men, we'll need to extra security on the gun line."

The little gnome nodded, shuffling forward with her daggers swinging on her belt, creating an awkward clanging sound that slightly amused the Lord Commander. He allowed the tip of his bastard sword to rest on a rock jutting out of the marsh, folding his hands over the pommel and breathing a heavy sigh. He was tired and he had no doubt his men were tired, the march had sapped him of his energy and the skirmish with the Kor'kron had not made it any better. "The Hand's Lord Commander is getting old," he thought, a bemused grin on his visage.

"Cannons ready to fire, Lord Baulvet," screamed one of the cannoneers, in a rough voice. Ser Baulvet eyed the cannons, a man stood off to the left of each with a pike in hand. At his order, they would drop the pikes and spark the fuse on the weapon, creating a mighty roar and a few more orcish widows.

Brother Calowell took refuge behind one of the ruined ballista that laid several meters to the rear of the cannons. Lord Baulvet could hear the man praying in a soft voice, his grip tightening around his two-handed sword. Lord Baulvet shook his head, prayers would not make the walls crumble any faster, victory could only be bought with iron and blood.

The time had come to give the order; this would be the final volley before the charge. If the walls did not fall, they'd be forced to scale them and that'd make for a bloody day. Failure would not be an option though, if Stonard did not fall all of their gains would be for nothing and they need fight the Horde for months if not years in this murky hell.

The Lord Commander raised his hand skyward, tightening it into an iron fist and bringing it down with a vicious yell, "fire!"

With his order the cannoneers brought the pikes crashing down onto the cannon, sparking the fuse. In a flash the cannons bellowed, sending their payload thundering toward Stonard. The iron balls struck perfectly at a section of wall that had been struck several times before, causing it to make a shrill shriek before it's weight gave out to the overwhelming damage of the 7th Legion artillery.

Sir Baulvet's hands fold over the pommel of his bastard sword once more, a tired smile creeping onto his face as his men cheer triumphantly. They'd done it, Stonard's defenses had crumbled before their might and only one task remained- the sacking. The cheering soon faded, the men were too worn out for prolonged celebrations, everyone knew what had to be done and that they must save their strength.

"Lok'tar Ogar!"

The fearsome scream was preceded by a spear flying through the air, and through one of the poor souls on the gun line. Lord Commander Baulvet felt a familiar emotion rising from the pits of his stomach, one he would never admit to. Fear.

"To arms," Sir Baulvet boomed, lifting his mighty bastard sword above his head in a high guard. He could see the orcs and trolls already descending upon the cannoneers, they were dancing the dance of swords-a bloody waltz, where men could lose limbs and more. The Lord Commander joined them, bringing the strong of the blade down in a smooth arch and taking a troll's axe arm with it. The bastard let out a shrill shriek, collapsing onto the ground and unleashing its bowels, emitting the familiar stink of a dying foe.

A larger foe gave Sir Baulvet his attention-an orc with a battle axe the size of Baulvet's upper body-and grinned, swinging the battle axe in an upward arch which the Lord Commander had to leap backward to avoid being cut down by. Sir Baulvet stepped forward, his sword meeting the orc's second strike. He was no stranger to the infamous strength and intensity of the orcs, and this one was no different.

The sounds of swords singing around them, coupled with the screams of the dying and smell of burnt flesh did not faze Baulvet. To falter was to die, and he could not fall yet. With his weapon grinding against the orc's, Ser Baulvet took a step to the side and swept the orc's leg with his own, slamming him onto the ground and driving the point of his blade through it's skull.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Lord Commander could see Brother Calowell emerging from the rear and bum rushing a troll from behind. He pitied the creature as it was sliced in half by Calowell, the top half sliding onto the ground, still alive. Ser Baulvet looked away, shouting to his men, "no mercy, they'd show us none!"

As their dance concluded, Ser Baulvet stepped over the corpses of 7th Legion and Kor'kron alike. He turned to his surviving men, the tired wretches that they were, and spoke sternly, "come brothers, we must not relent."

The words he spoke were not his own, they'd been the words of Sir Dondal before he lead a young squire into Stonard over twenty years ago. Sir Dondal did not return from Stonard, in his place and with his bastard sword emerged Sir Baulvet, with a promise made still on his lips. The promise to never relent, to scour the Horde from the world... no matter the cost.


	2. The Oathbreaker

**Gervian**

The unpaved road twisted through the swamp, it's dirt face tempered by the tracks of friend and foe alike. Gervian recognized some of the prints, noting the hoof prints of stallions, the paw prints of the orcish worgs, and even the web-footed imprints of murlocs.

This greatly troubled the man, since the presence of tracks meant that they'd not been gone long. Heavy rains often swept through the lands infamously known as the Swamp of Sorrows, washing away the road and taking everything on it into the bog once the waters receded.

Those Gervian had met on his travels cautioned him of the renewed struggles within this neck of the realm. He had not taken them seriously. Commoners often spoke of ill omens, to them a black cloud meant imminent flooding and a back-woods skirmish would most certainly herald the second sack of Stormwind.

Gervian could not deny that there had been conflict here, that much was certainly true. Besides the tracks on the road, Gervian had had the misfortune of spotting corpses in the bog and many a makeshift gravesite along the road. The living seemed to allude him however, and in that regard, Gervian considered himself fortunate. The man did not fancy being caught up in the middle of a battle, where an overly zealous soldier may mistake him for an enemy and put an arrow or spear through his belly. They'd not need to take much effort in justifying their actions either.

Gervian was a cautious man however, he had stored his sword belt in his satchel at the first signs of battle. He was well within his rights to hold arms in the King's land, but this was a warzone and either side could use his possession of steel as a pretext to open him up without so much as uttering a word.

His pace was brisk as he traveled down the path, adding his own mark to the assortment of tracks below him. Gervian would keep his wits about him, frequently making careful observations of his environment. "A careless man might meet Father Death here," Gervian thought, "it will not do for me to die here, my business is in Surwich."

Although he had already covered nearly two-thirds of the distance to Surwich, Gervian felt as if the small seaside town was further away than it had been at the beginning of his journey. After all, the most treacherous portion of his trip still laid ahead. He'd need to brave that bloody demon road through the Blasted Lands to reach Surwich. Provided he even survived the swamps.

As Gervian passed by another corpse on the road, a dry voice called out, "water; spare some water for a dying man."

The voice belonged to the poor soul he had taken for dead a few paces back. Gervian cursed himself for his carelessness, and approached the false corpse with a degree of caution-a dying man was a desperate man, and that sort could be dangerous. "Ya' don't look so good mate," Gervian spoke, forcing a smile, "I took you for dead, that I did."

The dying man wore the tattered blue rags of a King's man. There was a tear in his britches, just above the knee, exposing a nasty wound festering with blood and pus. The smell was horrid, but Gervian did his best to hide his discomfort out of respect for the dying man.

"Took an axe to the leg," the man croaked, "now ya' gonna give me some bloody water, or make another jape?"

Gervian smirked, sharing his canteen with the poor creature. He eagerly gulped down the water, so eagerly that Gervian suspected he hadn't had a drink in days. The man took the canteen from his lips, letting out a hacking cough and dropping the canteen at his side. The remaining water spilled out onto the muddy ground.

"Oi, careful with that ya' bloody fool," Gervian protested, snatching up the water skin and screwing the cap back on. Clean water would be a luxury from this point on, and he'd just spared half of his stock on the dying man.

The man's breathing was done with tremendous effort, his sunken eyes opening and closing at long intervals. Those eyes made Gervian uncomfortable, the way they seemed to pierce through his very soul. "The eyes of a dead man," Gervian thought.

"You're Gilnean," the man said. It was true; Gervian was a man of Gilneas-a courier to Surwich infact. He'd done well to hide his nationality, and what he was, from the smallfolk he came across. Many feared the worgen, and rightfully so.

"Aye," Gervian answered mildly, "accent gave me away I wager."

"If it aint the accent, it's the teeth and claws. Tell me, you one of them?"

"No," lied Gervian. The curse was a malady to him, and a source of shame. He vowed to never allow it to define who he was, and detested those who embraced the curse.

The man scowled, "bah, I've heard better lies from a used up tavern wench, ya' wouldn't be out here alone if ya' weren't one of them."

That much was true. While Gervian did not embrace what he was, he could not deny that the curse gave him unique advantages over any would be outlaws. "What difference does it make to ya' if I am or I aint?"

The man grimaced, breaking his cryptic gaze on Gervian. Begrudgingly he said, "I suppose it makes none now, not when I got one foot in the grave."

Gervian's better instincts told him that he should leave the man now, to continue to Surwich and deliver his message. After all, he had done the man a charitable service, one not many would do in such a situation. Curiosity however, got the better of him and he made the inquiry, "I've never seen the bog so choked with corpses before, what happened here?"

His grimace turned to a scowl as he spoke in a voice filled with contempt, "bloody orcs happened, Gilnean. They don't know when ta' die, we laid siege to Stonard and blew the bloody place to pieces, but when we tried to take the town we were pushed back and had to retreat."

Gervian's gaze shifted to the man's festering wound, and he said, "your wound, tell me more about how ya' received that."

A crooked smile crept onto the man's face, his answer delivered with mirth, "like I told ya', I took an axe to the leg during the retreat. Took the bastard's head in return, but I found myself alone in this hell hole soon after."

"I take it that the battle occurred recently?"

"Been over a week I think, stopped keeping track when my leg hurt too much for me to move."

Gervian was astonished by that revelation. To survive alone in such a volatile place took a mixture of luck and cunning, and even though this man's luck was dried up, Gervian still admired his ability to survive. "Your tenacity is impressive," Gervian said, "it seems you're at the end of your rope though, is there anything I can do to ease your mind?"

The man scoffed, grimacing as the ulcer burst and blood and pus flowed from the orfice in his thigh. In the midst of his suffering he still found strength to lash out at the Gilnean, saying, "I'd only find ease of mind from a promise of vengeance, but the promises of a Gilnean are hollow, the whole lotta' you are selfish and craven."

Gervian desired nothing more than to shake his head and rebuke the fellow, but he held his tongue. Gilneas was loved little in it's sister realm, who's smallfolk and highborne alike viewed the nation's stubborn neutrality to be cowardly at best and traitorous at worst. It would do no good to argue the point; mere words would not change years of prejudice.

The man produced a single piece of rolled up parchment, holding it out to Gervian. "At this point I'll settle for a liar's promise, and a bit of mercy."

Gervian took the parchment into his hand reluctantly, unrolling it and finding himself taken aback by the contents. Detailed sketches and diagrams filled the page, with hand written notes inscribed next to several of the illustrations. Atop the page was a solitary word. Stonard.

"Bastards rebuilt, don't know how they done it so bloody fast, but they rebuilt. After we broke and I took my wound I had my good days and my bad, days where I could walk n' hunt and days when the pain was so horrid that I considered ending the suffering by mine own hand. In the early days I was foolhardy enough to think I'd survive, and my duty as a scout and my honor as a knight demanded that I continue my service to the Alliance in any way I could. That scroll you hold is the embodiment of both my service and doom, and if it's my peace of mind you be seeking, deliver that to the hands of Lord Commander Baulvet in Marshtide Watch."

Gervian weighed his words carefully as he held the testament of this man's resilience in his hand. He had his own duty to perform, a message to deliver to Surwich. To accept this new duty, he'd need to forsake the old one. However, a lie might give the man comfort. So he lied, "I commend you for your courage, is has inspired me to carry out your dying wish."

The man beckoned Gervian forward, letting out a hacking cough. Flem and bile trickled down the pitiful man's face as the Gilnean knelt next to him. One of the dying man's hands shot up and snatched Gervian by the collar. With his face pressed against his, Gervian felt frightened-both by the man's sudden burst of strength, and by that unsettling gaze which seemed to scream malice.

"Spare me your lies," the man growled, "you'll abandon my work in the bog like the son of a Gilnean whore that you are, and I'll haunt you forever for it."

Gervian felt the man's grip loosen and then release, slapping onto the mud as the man thrashed side to side in agony. Gervian took this as an opportunity to regain his composure and make distance between himself and the man.

His fear turned to anger as he scolded the man, "you'll take a promise from a Gilnean, or this scroll will join you in the Light's eternal embrace, ya' bastard."

Blood oozed from the man's leg, as tears rolled down his cheeks and he cried, "mercy!"

Suddenly Gervian regretted lashing out. Wordlessly he unbuckled the satchel at his side, producing a long dagger with a cruel serrated edge. A dark thought cross his mind as he knelt behind the man, "perfect for cutting." With a steady hand he raised the man's head and slit his throat. Dark red blood gushed from the man's open wound, and gurgling soon followed as he drowned in his own fluids.

"Your duty is at an end," Gervian whispered, wiping the man's life essence from his dagger off onto the man's dirty rags.

Remorse weighed heavily on Gervian's conscious. He had failed to give the man comfort, indeed he had actually sent him into a rage. Gervian could not help but think that the man might have survived if he had just sought out a safe haven and a healer, rather than remain behind to probe the orcish defenses. It was bold, but foolishness and boldness often went hand and hand.

With that thought he took another look at the scroll. Gervian got the jist of the illustrations, making note of reinforced hovels and even ten foot walls with the word "titanium" written above. A smirk crept onto his visage. The man had not neglected to add detail, but the sketch was disorganized and seemed to be the product of a scattered mind.

An even worse offense was the crudeness of the illustrations, which while they plainly depicted what they intended to depict, were unpleasant to the eye. "If it had been me," Gervian thought, "I could've done the sketch four times as good, in half the time."

If he had not sworn the oath and pledged to serve as a courier, Gervian would have been content to live his days as an artist, even if that existence was a meager one. Nobles had little coin to provide patronage to an artist with a war to fight, and glory to be had. A sudden feeling of shame overtook him. Gervian may have superior artistic skill, but the dead man's resolve and devotion to his duty dwarfed his own.

Gervian reached into his satchel. When his hand emerged it clutched a scroll sealed with the wax seal of House Greymane. He'd sworn an oath to never break the seal, and it's contents were a mystery to him-this was because a courier also pledged to burn his message if under threat of capture, which would make torture yield less than desirable results.

Still, he was curious as to what he was risking his life for. He broke the seal and his oath, unfurling the parchment and reading it quietly to himself.

_Lord Manderly,_

_I pray you are in good health when this reaches you. If you are not blind and deaf you'll have noticed recent Horde activity to the north of Surwich. However, I am obliged to inform you of it anyway. Double the night watch and keep an eye to the sea._

_With regards,__  
><em>_Lord Comstock._

By the end of the read, Gervian's words had turned poisonous. He'd come so far to tell an old noble what he, by account of the sender of the message, should already be aware of. With his face red with anger, he gazed upon the corpse at his feet, then back at his own sworn duty. Gervian crumpled the message into a ball and tossed it into the bog.


	3. The Creature

**Morfang**

Despair met its mark and rendered the troll's azure flesh asunder. Sticky red gore erupted onto Morfang's face. Undaunted, he shouted, "three!"

When his long sword kissed the head of his foe's battle axe his mind was clear. When he deflected a reckless strike from the same foe, he was one with the sword he had affectionately named Despair. Euphoria coursed through his veins when his counterstroke tore through boiled leather, flesh, and bone alike.

"Four," he bellowed.

"Three," answered the pale corpse of a man to his left, whom was known as Wolfkrone. Wolfkrone was one of the Ebon Blade's infamous Death Knights. He did not stray far from the path when he became the Warden of the Hand; the man charged with keeping the peace and issuing punishment to those who threatened it.

As Morfang announced his fifth kill he noticed a sharp drop in the enemy's numbers. Mere minutes ago they were surrounded, with enemies to kill on all sides; a prospect which excited the worgen. Morfang thought it had been minute anyway; he had entered a state of mind where abstract concepts such as time did not matter, and only the physical act of steel on steel mattered; it could have been hours for all he knew.

Morfang stepped behind a preoccupied tauren and drove the careless fool to his knees with a violent bash to its skull with Despair's hilt. Morfang gave the tauren's prior opponent-an archmage whose name he did not care to remember-a toothy grin and plunged the entirety of the long sword in between his foe's shoulder blade. That grin betrayed a great deal about the nature of Morfang; that any creature could find amusement in bloodshed would baffle an ordinary man, but to Morfang it felt perfectly normally to enjoy taking life. "Six," he announced smugly.

The archmage returned his smile, but this wasn't the smile of a decadent creature; it was a thin, labored smile that was an insincere as any Morfang had seen on a tavern wench. Morfang found himself loathing this woman, because of that smile. Her smile faded and was replaced by an honest expression of agony. Blood flowed from her mouth as if it were a fountain and her body jerked forward to flop helplessly onto the ground; the spark of life faded from her eyes.

In the woman's place stood another opponent, which delighted Morfang more than a false smile from a pretty woman ever could. He paid no attention to the corpse and stepped over it unceremoniously; the girl should've paid more mind to the dance, and to pay her any mind would only distract him from the task at hand. Within a heartbeat of his brazen act of defiance Morfang included his own note into the melody of steel.

Soon the tide overtook their adversaries; adversaries whom had harried them at all sides and from desirable terrain when the melee had begun. That terrible tide of steel sent the Horde into a desperate retreat, the wretched "warriors" breaking in all directions and taking whichever route would deliver them to a reprieve from the Hand's steel kisses. In that moment the shame of the Kor'Kron Legion was absolute. "If they are true warriors they'll envy the fallen," Morfang mused, as he coupled Despair with its sheathe, "for shame is a fate worse than death."

Men at arms began to give chase to the fleeing host, the circle of swords and shields began to dissolve into a bloodthirsty mob. Thunderous words halted them. "Hold the line, we've achieved glorious victory, but I beseech you to stay your blades or we might have no one to fight on the 'morrow," boomed the Lord Commander in his cold and calculated voice.

Laughter ran down the line and the battle lust faded, replaced by jubilation. Morfang remained quiet. The end of a quarrel was nothing to be joyed over, not to him. The opposite was true, battle was his joy. It was the reason why he had sworn his sword to a man he did not particularly care for.

Lord Commander Baulvet was a man which Morfang had difficulty in trusting. When the lordling bestowed the honorific title of Knight-Captain upon him, Morfang asserted that he would not change his attitude and that he would continue his streak of violent acts and drunkenness. The Lord Commander took him by surprise when he stated mildly, "I make you my Knight-Captain not despite your unruly behavior, but because of it. Serve me well and I will sate all of your primal desires."

"Any man that would freely set me upon his enemies knowing full well of what I intend to do, is a man with little regard for ethics," Morfang pondered as a grin danced across his face.

Although he could not trust the Lord's motives, he knew he could at least trust his promise. Morfang saw many battles with the Hand, and he seldom suffered defeat. The very memory of that bitter smell of saltpeter sent chills down his spine; it was a throwback to the Siege of Stonard, which still provoked a depraved and primal feeling from beneath the very essence of his being. He had never seen so much carnage in one day.

Morfang's thoughts were interrupted by another command from the Lord Commander. "Now is not the time to rest, we must not relent in our march to Surwich."

Surwich was their destination. The seaside Gilnean hamlet had suffered occupation at the hands of the Shattered Oath Mercenary Company. They were not alone on the road to Surwich however; the Kor'kron Legion had sallied forth from their fortress at Stonard to reinforce their sellsword allies to the south. This battle was the result of that; the Kor'Kron Legion successfully baited the Hand into the hills with a clever ruse.

Of course it backfired and the bastards thrusted themselves onto the Hand's naked steel. While the wretches retreated in disorderly fashion the Hand broke their battle lines and began their march down the slope. As they emerged from the goat path Morfang heard the Lord Commander call for him, "Knight-Captain, we have much to discuss."

Morfang glanced over his shoulder and gave the lordling a hard look. Not surprisingly Gervian-whom Lord Baulvet had taken to calling Oathbreaker-was following close behind his new commander. The squirrly man had committed a crime which the punishment required the removal of a tongue, but he had received a reprieve from that when the Lord Commander received intricate sketches of Stonard's defenses from the Oathbreaker. He was planning a second strike on Stonard when knowledge reached him that the orcs had rebuilt the settlement with better defenses. It was because of the Oathbreaker that when the raven bearing the news of Surwich's fall arrived, the Lord Commander elected to bypass Stonard's high walls, rather than delay himself any longer with a costly siege.

Still Morfang resented the Oathbreaker. They may share common blood in Gilneas, but the Oathbreaker shunned the curse and those who embraced it. Morfang more than embraced the curse and he spent the majority of his time as a worgen. "What fool would not want to be stronger, faster and more quick-witted," Morfang asked himself.

"I'd rather not," Morfang answered contemptuously.

The Lord Commander shook his head and sighed. "Oh Morfang, if you were anyone else I would have you flogged for such insolence," Lord Baulvet said, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"You're welcome to try, or better yet you could have your stooge give it a go. I'd love to flay him alive."

The Lord Commander looked to Gervian with sinister half-smile on his face. Mildly he said, "perhaps you may get that opportunity one day."


End file.
